Listening
To become a poet is to dare to live
in the heart of things
while others sleep.
You stay awake
and listen
sounds of walls cracking wide open to reveal
miniature birds nests, harboring eggs
blue gold white yellow speckled sometimes.
Alone, you find yourself laughing
at a voice not your own
which tells you where
to go for these words
over there stretch your body this way or that
to encompass this piece of existence where illumination
outlines the vision of your minds’ ear.
Hold it near, hold it up to that light
be unafraid to examine it
closely
everything here was once known before
but not yet said
in a place where bologna wrappers and squirrels tiny paws
all belong to the same genre
the same form and
substance, the one the only.
Silently, stealthily, joyously, expectantly
you cock your head and listen,
oh you poets of the night.
Pieces
It differs
the way
you and I
leave our parts
lying around town.
For I
miscarry,
handing out pieces of brain
left upper limbs
lower lips
appendages.
You,
on the other hand
or limb
get all the way under the covers
with these strangers
and leave your heart there
The Arc of Waiting
(Learning to Fly)
Perched tentative bird, I
waiting through ages
Dinosaurs slowly, steadily roam
Their lazy bones savoring
Earth’s new pleasures.
Replaced in time
With a cascade of humans
Music guiding their course
Gregorian chant finds me, its precision
Tilting me towards stillness
And I have been waiting
Uncertain, harboring myself
Now a modern age, a different pace
Giant metal birds rapidly
Lift me aloft.
Airwaves blow American jazz.
I take notes on freedom
From its abandoned exactitude
And I have been waiting
As coals pressed into shimmering diamonds
For you, for your steady soaring
For you, the one who could meet me here
Learning differences between light and shadow
The nuances between fear and desire
Juxtaposed between trusting and not
While I studied the ground plan, the air plan
Knowing that I, winged creature
Would unfold pale quivering wings
And attempt that lift off
Finding you high above earth
Completing my arc
Of waiting.
Elizabeth Good was a creative writing major in college, who is returning to writing after a decades long hiatus. She works as a psychic in Santa Cruz county, California, plumbing spiritual and psychological depths to assist her clientele. It is from this place, plus from her love of observing and living life that her poems arise.
To become a poet is to dare to live
in the heart of things
while others sleep.
You stay awake
and listen
sounds of walls cracking wide open to reveal
miniature birds nests, harboring eggs
blue gold white yellow speckled sometimes.
Alone, you find yourself laughing
at a voice not your own
which tells you where
to go for these words
over there stretch your body this way or that
to encompass this piece of existence where illumination
outlines the vision of your minds’ ear.
Hold it near, hold it up to that light
be unafraid to examine it
closely
everything here was once known before
but not yet said
in a place where bologna wrappers and squirrels tiny paws
all belong to the same genre
the same form and
substance, the one the only.
Silently, stealthily, joyously, expectantly
you cock your head and listen,
oh you poets of the night.
Pieces
It differs
the way
you and I
leave our parts
lying around town.
For I
miscarry,
handing out pieces of brain
left upper limbs
lower lips
appendages.
You,
on the other hand
or limb
get all the way under the covers
with these strangers
and leave your heart there
The Arc of Waiting
(Learning to Fly)
Perched tentative bird, I
waiting through ages
Dinosaurs slowly, steadily roam
Their lazy bones savoring
Earth’s new pleasures.
Replaced in time
With a cascade of humans
Music guiding their course
Gregorian chant finds me, its precision
Tilting me towards stillness
And I have been waiting
Uncertain, harboring myself
Now a modern age, a different pace
Giant metal birds rapidly
Lift me aloft.
Airwaves blow American jazz.
I take notes on freedom
From its abandoned exactitude
And I have been waiting
As coals pressed into shimmering diamonds
For you, for your steady soaring
For you, the one who could meet me here
Learning differences between light and shadow
The nuances between fear and desire
Juxtaposed between trusting and not
While I studied the ground plan, the air plan
Knowing that I, winged creature
Would unfold pale quivering wings
And attempt that lift off
Finding you high above earth
Completing my arc
Of waiting.
Elizabeth Good was a creative writing major in college, who is returning to writing after a decades long hiatus. She works as a psychic in Santa Cruz county, California, plumbing spiritual and psychological depths to assist her clientele. It is from this place, plus from her love of observing and living life that her poems arise.